Memories, like the colours of my scarf.

After the sickening Prince Andrew debacle, don't anyone ever try peddling to me or anyone else there's such a thing as false memory syndrome.  The only thing false about any of my memories are the false happy things I invented to desperately avoid having to think about the reality of my situation.  That's the only way it works.  Who the hell would want to fantasise about being abused? Who? 

Now, guess what: Personally, I would never, ever send my child to St Joseph's in Ipswich. It's no longer De La Salle owned, we know (although Pat Mills suggests there's still a financial link), but if I had to call it, my money would absolutely be on there still being an issue there.  The more respectable an image projected, the better the camouflage in my experienced opinion. 

https://www.ipswichstar.co.uk/news/crime/former-ipswich-teacher-found-dead-before-trial-8804604

I'm very fortunate to have found some good support and have been having some EMDR therapy which, although draining, is beginning to help process the trauma suffered at the hands of _ 50 years on.   A local charity managed to find me in two weeks what the GP surgery has failed to do for years.  More details of what took place are starting to coming to light after I was asked by my therapist if I would like to have a conversation with my 12 year old self.  

It felt very strange in that session to realise I'd never allowed that 12 year old to speak.   But now he has and memories are starting to return.  I've discovered that my childhood survivor is calling the shots too, telling me not to try and recall the moment of trauma straight away, because, well... that's traumatic.  

Instead, last night, I remembered things like school trips to see Jesus Christ Superstar in both the West End and at the old ABC cinema in Ipswich (googles to check my memory is correct...) yes, it was demolished to make way for BHS in the Buttermarket.  I remembered the stand-out performance of the character who played Judas (God forgive casting a black guy as the villain, but again, he was easily the best performer).  I remembered falling in love with  who was it now?... A, B, C, D..........X. Y! Yvonne Elliman.  I remembered coming out of the cinema and it was dark.  Then a question. Who took me home? Parents? Or another lift with _ back to our village?

Now my brain is getting the hang of how to do this. It's leading me gently.  I remembered going to Grimwade's in town with Mum to get my first Birkfield uniform. The grey suit, trying on different jackets, the tie, the white shirts, the house scarf (which I actually quite liked) and the cap... now how did that look? was there some piping on it? A button on top? Not a peak like a baseball cap; smaller.  Navy coloured like the summer blazer with its brass buttons? Why can't I remember that detail when I carried it with me every day and God forbid if you were caught not wearing it when required. 

Move on to other items then, shoes... rugby boots! Suddenly I hear the distinctive clattering noise of a horde of boys walking in studs across the tarmac ... to where...? That rugby pitch behind the art room ... now I'm playing rugby, enjoying bringing down the big lads by diving kamikaze style at their ankles and clinging on for all I'm worth.  Who's refereeing?   Oh, him.  

Then I remember it was during that game I got a badly slashed leg, I want to say left leg,  from someone's studs and had to be helped back to the changing room... or medical room... can't recall.  Another question arises.  Did I play rugby without my glasses? Yes I must have. I remember having to protect them for football (which _ took as well).  For rugby, it didn't matter so much, I could see the other guys enough to tackle or dodge them if I did have the ball in my possession.

And on it goes, memories I blanked finally are coming back and boy, does that ever feel like progress. I've also got a plan in place now for how it's going to be when the main horror show feature starts replaying. 

Love, Peace, encouragement, strength and long, healthy years to all us survivors and to those who cheer us on or send us wine. X.